What a pretty description, doesn't it completely make the story?

I was having a positive conversation with a friend about this old description in an as yet, woefully... foolishly? unfinished story that was started almost a year ago.

Con lifted her head, shifting the blonde bangs from her eyes. Her walk, she had down to a fine art. Even her mother could not fault it.

From behind, she appeared as a boy. Thick, platform Mary Jane shoes covered her feet, and were covered over by straight black suit pants of a boy’s cut. With that combination, Con looked as tall as many of the boys who walked the halls, and a little taller than some. That her blonde hair cropped up against the back of her head, and only a scant amount of fringe flopped over her eyes, was exactly the look she was going for. She knew she could dip her head and smile at any of the first year girls, and they in turn would smile, and blush, before finding their friends to talk about the very effeminate boy who had just flirted with them.

Con had met up with a Swedish student by the name of Kjell a little bit into her first year at uni. Brunette where she was blonde, Kjell’s walk was nothing like her own, for all that he was a member of the male species. His hair was tied back in a ponytail to the length of his shoulder blades.

‘Trying to impress the newbies?’

His deep voice made her smile, and look up into his kind green eyes.

‘Whatever would make you think that?’

‘The poets shirt. You always wear that when you’re trying to impress someone.'

It got me to thinking of other descriptions that I have used for characters over the last few years, and I was looking at a small book that I had stopped using until recently.

It's only large enough to jot disjointed ideas down in note form when I'm nowhere near a computer or completely in the mind track of doing something else, like sleeping, or being on rickety PT, or having a conversation with someone. But these were some I found, and some characters that I want recreate just based on the fractured descriptions.

Her usually bright eyes were bloodshot above high cheekbones.

Blonde hair that he'd forgotten to tie up that morning framed jaw line and compassionate blue eyes in a disheveled mess.

Chocolate brown eyes asked her a silent question as his dark fringe fell into his eyes, again.

The line of his nose and mouth were thinner, perfect for the look of distaste he pulled when he was displeased.

It seemed like she was only moving to stop herself from curling in a corner and crying the rims around her eyes even redder.

His eyes were watchful, even when his attention seemed to be elsewhere.